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Authors: Jane Toombs
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accustomed to their lands and their wealth. But remember, we are a few hundred white men living on the edge of a wilderness inhabited by thousands of savages. At times we must be cruel to survive. Otherwise we'd all be murdered in our sleep."
Esteban put his glass on the table. "But let us speak of happier events—your marriage, your new life in California. Do you still intend to make your home in Monterey?"
"I do. Margarita will live with the American consul while our house is being built."
"I was surprised you chose Monterey for your home," Esteban said. "Governor Sola, as you know, has long been one of Margarita's many admirers."
Jordan smiled despite the pang of jealousy he felt. Esteban Mendoza, he decided, could give as good as he got.
"Governor Sola," Margarita said, "is a pig."
"Admittedly he weighs two hundred and fifty pounds or more," Esteban said, "and is only slightly taller than you, Margarita. It's true he does eat five enormous meals of meat a day, or did when last he visited here, and his table manners have been described by some as uncouth, but he is not a pig. Pedro Sola is our governor, sent to us from Mexico City by the Spanish viceroy himself, and a man of great wealth."
"He is a pig." Margarita faced her brother, her eyes flashing. "If a man like that, a man I didn't love, were ever to put his hands on me in lust, I would, I would—"
"Kill him?" Esteban asked.
"No, I would kill myself rather than endure the shame." Suddenly she ran to Jordan and buried her face against his chest. "Take me with you," she whispered as he stroked her hair. "Take me with you now."
He was tempted. They could, after all, be married in Monterey. He turned the idea over in his mind, weighing the pros and cons. No, he finally decided, he couldn't afford to make enemies of the Mendozas.
"We should be married here," he told her. "The great feast is planned and the guests are already on their way."
She looked up at him, smiling though her eyes glittered with tears. "I shall count the days."
The night before the wedding Jordan walked to a high hill overlooking the sea. He stood for a long time leaning against the trunk of an oak with the sweet scent of orange blossoms in the air all around him. Overhead, a half-moon shone in a cloudless sky, silvering the mountains, the ranch buildings, the fields and the orchards.
To his left he saw the gray adobe walls of the mission, below him the Kerry Dancer's masts were outlined in black against the sea. The sound of singing drifted to him from the direction of the mission.
I'm in Spanish California, he told himself, listening to mission Indians singing a French hymn in Latin. He thought of the next day, the wedding and Margarita. She was so young, so trusting. I hope to God I know what I'm about, he said to himself as he turned and walked slowly back to the rancho.
In the morning he and Margarita rode side by side to the church, on horses covered with silks decorated with pieces of silver, iron and copper, the tinkling of the metal sounding like a hundred small echoes of the tolling mission bells. Margarita's head was crowned with a white mantilla and cascades of lace fell down to cover the rich darkness of her hair.
Was this magnificently gowned woman the mischievous girl he'd courted? Jordan wondered. He saw gleams of lustrous white satin through the overdress of fine lace that flowed in tiers from her waist to cover her feet. "Convent lace from Spain," Margarita had said of a shawl she'd once worn. Jordan had a sudden vision of black-garbed nuns bent over flying shuttles, laboring to produce the lace for this wedding gown. Lace for a woman who was to taste what they had forsworn.
He tried to catch Margarita's eye, to smile at her, but she stared straight ahead, unnaturally solemn. Her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing, the white skin that showed above the gown's pearl-encrusted bodice fairer than all the costly garments she wore.
They dismounted at the
Esteban put his glass on the table. "But let us speak of happier events—your marriage, your new life in California. Do you still intend to make your home in Monterey?"
"I do. Margarita will live with the American consul while our house is being built."
"I was surprised you chose Monterey for your home," Esteban said. "Governor Sola, as you know, has long been one of Margarita's many admirers."
Jordan smiled despite the pang of jealousy he felt. Esteban Mendoza, he decided, could give as good as he got.
"Governor Sola," Margarita said, "is a pig."
"Admittedly he weighs two hundred and fifty pounds or more," Esteban said, "and is only slightly taller than you, Margarita. It's true he does eat five enormous meals of meat a day, or did when last he visited here, and his table manners have been described by some as uncouth, but he is not a pig. Pedro Sola is our governor, sent to us from Mexico City by the Spanish viceroy himself, and a man of great wealth."
"He is a pig." Margarita faced her brother, her eyes flashing. "If a man like that, a man I didn't love, were ever to put his hands on me in lust, I would, I would—"
"Kill him?" Esteban asked.
"No, I would kill myself rather than endure the shame." Suddenly she ran to Jordan and buried her face against his chest. "Take me with you," she whispered as he stroked her hair. "Take me with you now."
He was tempted. They could, after all, be married in Monterey. He turned the idea over in his mind, weighing the pros and cons. No, he finally decided, he couldn't afford to make enemies of the Mendozas.
"We should be married here," he told her. "The great feast is planned and the guests are already on their way."
She looked up at him, smiling though her eyes glittered with tears. "I shall count the days."
The night before the wedding Jordan walked to a high hill overlooking the sea. He stood for a long time leaning against the trunk of an oak with the sweet scent of orange blossoms in the air all around him. Overhead, a half-moon shone in a cloudless sky, silvering the mountains, the ranch buildings, the fields and the orchards.
To his left he saw the gray adobe walls of the mission, below him the Kerry Dancer's masts were outlined in black against the sea. The sound of singing drifted to him from the direction of the mission.
I'm in Spanish California, he told himself, listening to mission Indians singing a French hymn in Latin. He thought of the next day, the wedding and Margarita. She was so young, so trusting. I hope to God I know what I'm about, he said to himself as he turned and walked slowly back to the rancho.
In the morning he and Margarita rode side by side to the church, on horses covered with silks decorated with pieces of silver, iron and copper, the tinkling of the metal sounding like a hundred small echoes of the tolling mission bells. Margarita's head was crowned with a white mantilla and cascades of lace fell down to cover the rich darkness of her hair.
Was this magnificently gowned woman the mischievous girl he'd courted? Jordan wondered. He saw gleams of lustrous white satin through the overdress of fine lace that flowed in tiers from her waist to cover her feet. "Convent lace from Spain," Margarita had said of a shawl she'd once worn. Jordan had a sudden vision of black-garbed nuns bent over flying shuttles, laboring to produce the lace for this wedding gown. Lace for a woman who was to taste what they had forsworn.
He tried to catch Margarita's eye, to smile at her, but she stared straight ahead, unnaturally solemn. Her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing, the white skin that showed above the gown's pearl-encrusted bodice fairer than all the costly garments she wore.
They dismounted at the
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